


I Might Fear I Go

by wardo_wedidit



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Background Relationships, Break Up, Character Death, Closeted Character, Literary References & Allusions, Love Letters, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reunions, Secret Relationship, The Pacific, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be.  But what will happen in all the other days that ever come can depend on what you do today.  It's been that way all this year.  It's been that way so many times.  All of war is that way."</i> -- Ernest Hemingway</p><p>When Mark, Dustin, Chris, and the rest of the 1st Marine Division end up in Melbourne, Australia until further notice after the Battle of Guadalcanal, Mark isn't expecting much more than some time to write and relax--and maybe watch Chris and Dustin dance around each other like teenagers.  He certainly does not expect to meet Eduardo Saverin, and he <i>certainly</i> does not expect to fall in love.  </p><p>(An AU based on episode three of <i>The Pacific</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Might Fear I Go

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a couple warnings: there are deaths in this fic. I feel like saying major deaths is overselling it (though that's what I marked in the warnings here just to be safe) and minor deaths is underplaying it, so I'll just say "secondary character deaths" because that seems like the most accurate description. Also, there are very vague descriptions of war-related violence (not at all graphic) and general discussion of PTSD, so trigger-warnings for all those things. 
> 
> This Big Bang was such a struggle for me... I tried to write two other things first to no avail, due to inspiration problems and lack of time and college and so much else, but then this happened! I have to thank my lovely beta [Lanie](http://hepaticas.livejournal.com/), and of course [Rachel](http://goingxmissing.tumblr.com/) for just always being there to listen to me whine about fic. 
> 
> Go check out the AMAZING ART for this fic by [the lovely Sammy](http://badsketches.livejournal.com/) [here](http://badsketches.livejournal.com/41944.html)! It is truly the best! My own little fanmix for it is [here](http://8tracks.com/wardowedidit/i-might-fear-i-go/).
> 
> Italicized portions are from Ezra Pound's amazing poem "Hugh Selwyn Mauberley". I have changed the order a little to fit my own purposes, so you should all [go read it in full](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174181) in all it's glory. The title is from [Song for Zula](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcdOLKx2XG8) by Phosphorescent.

//

_“Daring as never before, wastage as never before._  
_Young blood and high blood,_  
_fair cheeks, and fine bodies;_  
_fortitude as never before…”_

//

The noise of the crowd seems much farther away than it is, a dull roar in Mark’s head. They’re smiling and waving and he can’t seem to make it connect in his brain, why they’re here, why they’re doing what they’re doing. 

He looks around, sees Dustin and Chris doing the same: blank faces and tired eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. The sounds before him fade away and suddenly he’s back there, explosions ringing in his ears and flashes of light, making his head pound. Mark gasps against his will, wonders when it will stop haunting him. 

In the next moment, Chris’ hand is on his back, slightly tentative. Mark opens his eyes and sees that Chris’ own are full of concern, silently asking if he’s alright. Dustin’s on his other side, turned inward, brow furrowed. Mark takes a shaky breath and nods, short, and Chris lifts his hand away. 

Mark swallows, steeling himself, and faces the celebrating crowd head on. 

//

They're staying in the city of Melbourne, Australia until further notice, a holding station until they're either sent off to the next base or the war ends (which doesn't look like it's going to happen anytime soon). Apparently Melbourne thinks they're heroes for Guadalcanal, which makes Mark feel sort of funny. Maybe he just saw too much of it to recognize any heroism there. 

Their welcoming committees give speeches inviting them to make themselves at home, but it all can't help but feel maddeningly temporary. There's nothing holding them here--no war, no family. It's like limbo and nothing feels quite real. 

Then they're lead to and put up in a stadium, directed to arrange the bunks in the seats and so on--put to work immediately. Mark grumbles as he goes through the motions, leaving a shoddy work job behind him but not being able to make himself care even the tiniest bit. 

“Hey,” Dustin says, his hands slowing as he looks out onto the field. “Look at that.”

Dozens of soldiers are just walking out, and no one is stopping them. The commanding officers either understand how they're feeling or don’t care about anyone breaking orders at the moment, but in either case people are _leaving_. 

Freedom, complete and utter freedom is on the taste of Mark’s tongue for the first time in months, and he knows he’s not going to be able to resist it. He grins, turning to Chris, who looks vaguely skeptical. 

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…” he says, despite the fact that he’s doing less work than Mark at the moment. He’s sitting down on his bunk, not even trying to pretend. Mark rolls his eyes. Dustin ignores him completely, coming up behind them with a glint in his eye that Mark has a feeling will lead to very inadvisable things. 

“Well,” Dustin says, clapping them both on the back, grinning wide and mischievous. Mark smiles instinctually to see it--it’s been a while. “Fellas, let’s go get drunk.”

Mark laughs, bursting out of him unexpectedly, bright and foreign. Chris catches his eye, unsure. Mark shrugs.

“Why not?”

They’re finally back in a location that is not 95% humidity and swamp and danger, and they’re being given free reign, and they don’t know when they’ll actually be going home. Going out and getting absolutely smashed seems like a necessity. 

Set on convincing Chris, Dustin makes the most exaggerated pouting face Mark has seen in his whole life, aimed directly at him and batting his eyelashes to make it that much more ridiculous. “ _Chriiiiiiis_ , it won’t be any fun without you!” he wails, and light is leaking into Chris’ eyes, and all of this is simultaneously so absolutely saccharine and tragic that Mark has to resist rolling _his_ eyes. He expects that whole saga is only going to get worse here now that there isn’t the constant threat of war always lingering not too far away to sober the two of them up. 

“Fine,” Chris finally agrees, smile quirking up one side of his mouth. Dustin lets out a whoop and runs off, leaving Mark and Chris laughing behind him, slowly following. 

//

Melbourne is busy, overflowing with people rushing around and living their everyday lives, even now, as dusk starts to fall. The bar is jam-packed and girls are everywhere, and Dustin’s eyes follow them around like something out of a cartoon. 

“Look at _her_!” he exclaims, faltering a little as his barstool spins underneath him. He’s well into his cups at this point, and Mark can’t help but stifle a snort into his beer, even as Dustin throws an arm around him. “Is she not the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen? Huh, Mark?” 

Mark silently thinks that the way Dustin’s words are slurred and that he absolutely _reeks_ of booze are going to put a damper on any romance Dustin has in mind, but he plays along. “Definitely,” he agrees, not really giving her a second glance. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Chris is clutching his beer stein so hard his knuckles are going white and he's grinding his teeth with a less than overjoyed expression on his face. Mark has spent enough time around Chris and is perceptive enough to know that the cause is most likely Dustin’s exuberant, adoring exclamations, but he doesn’t say anything. They both know that there’s nothing to _do_ , as much as Mark can sympathize. 

But Dustin’s obliviousness takes the cake, sometimes, and he claps Chris on the shoulder, leaning heavily onto him. “C’mon, Chris,” he says. “Cheer up. Just think, you could spend all night with a girl like _her_!” 

Mark winces, knowing that Dustin’s attempts to cheer up Chris can only make this situation worse. Sure enough, Chris closes his eyes and breathes out heavily, his expression going slightly sad. “She’s not really my type, Dus,” he murmurs, and Mark looks away. 

Dustin is not as aware as Mark on his best day, let alone when he’s drunk as a skunk. “Not your _type_? Look at her, she’s anyone’s type!” he laughs, gesturing in her general direction. “What, you don’t like porcelain skin? You don’t like legs that go on for miles? You don’t like perfect curves, crystal blue eyes, hair like _sunlight_?” He almost falls off his chair, and this time Mark can’t even find it funny. 

Chris sighs, straightening a little, meeting Dustin’s eye. He’s silent for a beat, and then speaks, voice clear and certain. “No.”

Dustin stares at him for a moment, brow furrowed like he can’t parse his meaning, and then he just _laughs_ , shaking his head. “Whatever man, I don’t get you,” he says, matter-of-fact but good-humoredly and something in Chris deflates, staring fixedly back down at the bar. But Mark is suddenly thankful for Dustin’s drunken blunderings, and despite Chris’ stark, honest, confession now, he knows he will be grateful in the morning too. 

“I’m gonna go talk to her,” Dustin declares, stumbling as his feet hit the ground. Mark sits silently and Chris has his head in his hands, the mood suddenly heavy. “See you guys later,” Dustin slurs, walking away, right towards the blonde and her easily inviting smile, which she quickly turns to his direction. 

Chris laughs a little, dark and without humor, and Mark spins on his chair to face him and puts a hand lightly on Chris’ shoulder. He may not be as good at this emotional crap as Chris or Dustin are, but he’s not a _moron_. He grew up with three sisters and he has some common sense. “Hey,” he murmurs, and Chris looks up, eyes red. 

Mark’s chest aches a little because he _remembers_ that, remembers never really looking at girls the same way the other guys did in school, remembers losing his virginity to Erica, a girl he’d known all his life, and feeling nothing but uncomfortable and disappointed deep in his gut, like he wanted to claw his way out of his own skin. He remembers the awkward fumblings afterward, the way he’d had to breathe in and out until the tears welling in his eyes went away, the way Erica sat up and wrapped her arms around him, tight. She had whispered, “I know,” into his skin and just held him like she _understood_ how he was feeling, and Mark had cried. He remembers holding her back and being suddenly _glad_ it was her, that someone finally got it. 

But Mark doesn’t say any of this, even if he sometimes suspects that Chris can see it. It wouldn’t help now, because he knows how Chris feels. To be so close all the time and so far away, the _excruciating_ bittersweetness of it all--nothing else quite compares. 

“Let’s get absolutely pissed,” is all Mark says, and Chris nods, looking a little bit raw and very, very grateful. 

//

_“Caught in the unstopped ear;_  
_Giving the rocks small lee-way_  
_The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year.”_

//

They end up stumbling outside the bar when Dustin and his new friend get affectionate and Chris looks a little bit like he’s going to vomit. 

The fresh air does them both good though, even if they’re both clutching bottles like their life depends on it and they have _no_ fucking idea where they’re going. Chris starts to look more and more self-possessed the further they get from the bar, speaking in slow, stammered sentences. 

“I’m a masochist,” he says, nodding at his own words. “I am, I am-- _and_ I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Mark disagrees, rolling his eyes a little. Maybe Chris needs to wallow a little, fine, but he doesn’t need to _lie_. 

“No, I am,” Chris says with a humorless laugh, knocking back another sip from the bottle. “If I wasn’t, I’d be able to stop. I wouldn’t still be dreaming about--about things that are never gonna happen. _Fuck_ ,” he exhales, stopping suddenly, leaning against a lamppost. 

Mark scuffs his boot against the pavement while Chris collects himself, eyes wandering idly over the street. Everywhere is starting to clear out now, patrons of bars and restaurants all pouring out onto the sidewalk and walking on. A streetcar pulls up and a bunch of people get on. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark sees a man jogging to get on, like he’s afraid he’s going to miss it. He makes it there in time, stopping while there is still a line waiting to get on. He is tan with dark hair and a long black overcoat, hands shoved in the pockets. The longer Mark looks at him, the more he has this niggling feeling in his chest… inexplicable but familiar, almost magnetic. 

And then, the man turns, casting his eyes fleetingly over his surroundings, and miraculously, stopping right on Mark. 

Mark feels his heart beat out of his chest, advancing forward slowly, ignoring Chris calling after him. It’s a pull he can’t explain, but he feels sort of like he _knows_ this person. Maybe from a memory far, far in the past because he can’t place him, but something about him rings true in Mark’s gut, and he just has to go and see. 

Because Mark has never had good luck, just when he reaches the street, the guy turns away, gets on the streetcar, and it drives away. 

“Wait!” Mark yells after it, like his voice has been ripped from his throat, and takes off at a run to follow it. It’s a clumsy, inelegant run, the alcohol thrumming in his veins keeps him from going too fast, but thankfully someone stops the driver, and the doors open. 

Mark gets on, climbing the stairs too excitedly, too fast, which causes him to trip over the feet of some passengers. He goes sprawling, head clonking the floor with a pain that makes him gasp. He gets up on his knees, pressing two fingers above his eye, and they come away with blood. 

“Are you okay?” a voice asks, and Mark looks up. 

There he is. 

“What?”

“I said, are you okay?” he asks again, reaching down and extending a hand, which Mark takes, to help pull him back up. His hands are warm and Mark shudders a little, which is embarrassing, but the guy doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m alright,” Mark replies, and then suddenly feels like laughing. He keeps it in, but can’t suppress the wide smile that breaks through on his face. “I’ve been through worse.”

The guy’s eyes go sympathetic and Mark wonders how he knows for a second before he remembers he’s still in uniform, but then they cloud over with worry. He uses his hand, still clasped in Mark’s grasp, to pull Mark into the seat next to him. “Are you sure?” he inquires, tone uncertain. “This looks kind of bad.” He bites his lip and something in Mark’s stomach flutters, but is quickly distracted as he raises one hand to Mark’s face, hovering there for a moment. It takes Mark a moment to figure out why, but then when he does he nods. 

His hand probes gently at the cut above Mark’s eye, and Mark can’t help but wince. The guy makes a concerned face, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief before continuing to exert gentle pressure onto it. 

“Why were you running?” he asks, eyes still focused on Mark’s injury. 

Mark focuses on his eyes: they are a deep, rich brown sparkling with flecks of gold--Jesus, maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. “I just. I thought I recognized you, for a second,” he explains, volume low. 

The man’s brow furrows, and he pulls back a little until his eyes meet Mark’s. “What?” he breathes, voice lilting up. 

“You felt familiar,” Mark replies immediately, and he feels the man’s sharp intake of breath. 

The air feels charged between them, while they both sit there frozen, staring at each other like that will be enough to get an answer. 

“So do you?” the guy finally asks, a ghost of a breath, fragile--like the pause between heartbeats, too small to even be called a second. There’s a smile tugging hesitantly at the corners of his lips, a twinkle in his eye. Mark shrugs, too drunk to be sure one way or another. 

And for some reason, this makes the guy _laugh_ , bright and full with his head thrown back. Mark stares at the long column of his throat and feels a dopey smile slip onto his own mouth, giddy without reason. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, a sort of fond look on his face, complete with a lopsided smile. 

“Mark,” he replies, immediate and eager… _so_ damn eager. He doesn’t care, not in the _least_. He’s on dry land and he’s drunk enough that everything feels a little bit wonderful, and there’s a beautiful boy sitting next to him and talking to him and worrying about the cut on his face who also just happens to have very warm hands and a smile seemingly just for him. 

“Mark,” the guy repeats, like he’s testing it out in his mouth. Mark can’t help but like the way it sounds there. “I’m Eduardo,” he says, sticking out his hand, which Mark shakes. They are still warm. 

The streetcar screeches when the driver applies the brakes, and the guy-- _Eduardo_ \--looks up. He shoots Mark an apologetic smile. “The next one’s me,” he explains, fumbling again inside his coat. “But, um,” he stammers, pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper, scribbling something down. “You should come and see me, when you’re sober,” he finishes, handing the scrap of paper to Mark. “I’ll check out your head, make sure you’re alright. And maybe we can figure out where you know me from.”

Mark holds the scrap of paper by the edges with both hands, careful. It has an address that he has no idea how to get to, and then a name scrawled underneath in looping, leaning script. _Eduardo_. 

Eduardo is rising from his seat and heading for the door, but Mark looks up just in time as the streetcar shudders to a stop. He gives Mark a mischievous grin and sticks his hands back in the deep pockets of his coat. “In case you forget,” he calls over his shoulder as the doors open and he steps out. 

Mark bites down on his grin. He may be drunk off his ass, but he is never, _ever_ , going to forget this. 

//

The next day, after checking back into the stadium and making sure Chris hasn’t died and that he hasn’t killed Dustin (which, Chris glumly informs him, would have been impossible since Dustin went home with his lady friend) and then acquiring a map of Melbourne, he sets off to the address on the scrap of paper. 

It’s only in daylight that things seem a little clearer… for example, the fact that Eduardo had a _hint_ of an accent but that it definitely wasn’t Australian, which hadn’t seemed odd to Mark at the time but definitely does now. When he got back to the stadium they’d bandaged the cut on his head, and while they were, he realized Eduardo had stuck his handkerchief in Mark’s pocket. These little irregularities in his memory just make Mark even more excited to get there, because for some reason he finds himself wanting to know everything about Eduardo. Whatever he can get. 

He’s standing somewhat awkwardly on the sidewalk by a house he thinks might be Eduardo’s. There’s a white fence and a porch painted to match, and a charming garden edging around the side of the house that Mark figures must lead to the back. There are potted plants hanging from the awning, and it all just looks so welcoming and warm that Mark kind of wants to just stand here and admire for a moment--that’s definitely what it is, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s working up the courage to go knock on the door. 

Just as he’s having this internal debate with himself, the screen door creaks open and Mark looks up. Eduardo comes out, looking a little bit wondrous. “Mark?” he asks, like he can’t quite believe it. 

Mark stands up a little straighter, lips curling into a smile on instinct. “Hi,” he replies, an inadequate greeting, but he feels a little tongue-tied and he’s pretty sure he knows the _exact_ cause. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Eduardo says, grin wild on his face, and he bounds down the front steps like an excited child, stopping just when he is toe-to-toe with Mark. Mark smiles too, like it’s infectious. 

“I did,” he says, voice softer now, and Eduardo’s practically beaming at him now--that is, until he catches sight of the bandage on Mark’s head. 

He grimaces, reaching up to peel off the corner. “That bad, huh?” he asks, voice full of worry, but Mark shakes his head. 

“I don’t feel it so much,” he admits, simple honesty coloring the words much more than he meant them to, but thankfully Eduardo doesn’t seem to notice. 

From inside the house, someone calls Eduardo’s name. He drops his hand from Mark’s face and steps back a little. “That’s my mother,” he explains, still smiling, though not quite as brightly now. “I already told her we might have an American soldier come to visit; she’s going to insist you stay for dinner. Might as well give in,” he says, voice gently teasing. “It’ll be easier for all of us.” He rocks back on his feet a little, biting down on his lower lip. There is an edge of insecurity in his eyes and for a second Mark thinks that Eduardo might actually be unsure if Mark will say yes or not. 

“Of course,” Mark answers a little bit breathlessly, and Eduardo’s grin returns to its previous brilliance, and something thrills in Mark to know that he did that. 

“C’mon,” Eduardo says, turning and leading the way inside. Mark follows. 

//

That is how he ends up having dinner at Eduardo’s house. 

Eduardo’s mother is a short, kind woman with a round face surrounded by thick dark curls streaked with gray. She gives Mark a kiss on the cheek and pushes him down into a chair in front of a large dining room table, refusing all of his offers to help with the food (he may be blunt sometimes, but his mother raised him right--he’s not an _animal_ ). Eduardo rolls his eyes fondly and helps her cook, and then they all sit down to a delicious meal that they talk and laugh the whole way through, and Mark feels closer to himself than he has in a very long time. 

Afterwards, Mrs. Saverin sends Eduardo off to do the dishes and kicks her legs up on the nearest chair, continuing to talk with Mark. 

“We are Brazilians living in Australia, we are… how you say, _filho_? Transplants?”

“Travelers!” Eduardo calls from the sink, turning to face the dining room. He’s washing dishes, sleeves rolled up, arms in the water, and Mark immediately darts his eyes up to Eduardo’s face to keep himself from staring. Eduardo is smiling wide, so much so that the skin around his eyes sort of crinkles, and Mark has to look away because it’s too intense--like staring directly at the sun. 

“Transplants is a good word too,” Mark says, shrugging agreeably. 

She gives him a slow, wise smile. “You know this?”

Mark nods. “My family, we’re Jews living in Pennsylvania. ‘Transplant’ is a good word for it. Stationary but never quite attached.” 

She tips her glass at him. “I like this one, Eduardo!” she calls into the kitchen, and Mark can see Eduardo shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. She leans in conspiratorially across the table, lowering her voice a little. “You see, my Eduardo, he needs more friends. My late husband, he was strict. Eduardo used to have lots of friends before my husband scared them all off.” 

Apparently she’s still loud enough for Eduardo to hear, because there’s dark muttering coming from the kitchen. She rolls her eyes wearily, leaning back. “Do not speak ill of the dead, _moleque_!” she calls, and Eduardo waves her off, his back to them. 

Mark’s brow furrows. He thinks that maybe the whole episode with Mr. Saverin might have a little more to it than Mrs. Saverin knows or realizes, judging from Eduardo’s ominous reaction. But he clears his throat. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Saverin’s face softens, reaching out to cover his hand with her own. “Thank you, _caro_ ,” she replies. “It was a long time ago… four years.” She sits back again, glancing out the window. “My husband did not like Australia. He did not like the culture. Said it was too… loose. Too wild.” She shakes her head, voice dropping to a whisper, looking around to be sure that Eduardo can’t hear. “But I am glad we came here. Eduardo… he would have suffered in Brazil. Rodrigo and all his rules; they would have suffocated him. _Deus sabe,_ they fought enough here.” She sighs, eyes going a little sad before seemingly shaking it off. “What about your family? The Jews in Pennsylvania?” she asks with a smile. 

Mark laughs, sitting back. “We’re a big family. I have three sisters. My father is a teacher. We--we make enough to get by,” he replies. 

Mrs. Saverin shakes her head. “No, but what of your _family_? Is it warm, is it comfortable? Is it a place of love?”

He turns his head to the side a little to see Eduardo watching him, back against the countertop, arms across his chest, an open but absorbed expression on his face. 

He thinks of nights around the fireplace with the radio on, a journal and pen in his lap while his sisters chatter, his mother knits, and his father reads. He thinks of family meals alight with laughter, of the way his mother cried when he left and how his father’s voice got rough, the way he kissed his sister’s foreheads in their sleep before heading off to report in. He thinks of nights spent not much differently than this, and how it would make him feel warm and fuzzy, like he was where he was supposed to be. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, turning back to face her. “Yeah, it is.”

Mrs. Saverin looks at him somewhat wistfully, like she knows what is going through his head. “Well, then you must stay here,” she says abruptly. 

Mark startles a little. “Oh no, Mrs. Saverin, I couldn’t impose like that; I don’t know how long I’m going to be here--I could leave tomorrow, I could leave a year from now--”

“Nonsense!” she interrupts. “We will be happy to have you as long as you are able to stay; won’t we, Eduardo?” she asks, voice absolutely firm. 

Mark turns to Eduardo, who is smiling shyly. “Better do as she says,” he advises, throwing the dish towel over his shoulder and pulling the plug out of the drain. “It’s easier for all of us,” he sing-songs, the same words from earlier, and Mark can’t help but grin. 

“Sure,” he agrees. “I’ll stay.” 

//

There is a guest bedroom that they set Mark up in. They go out of their way to make the bed, find pillows, and all of that--things Mark says more than once that he wouldn't mind doing himself, seeing as they're already doing such a big favor to let him stay here--but Mrs. Saverin won't hear it. 

But for some reason, once they both retreat to their rooms and leave Mark in solitude, Mark can't sleep. It's a cozier bed than he's had the privilege of in months, and he was just given the best meal since the one his mom made the night before he left, but sleep still doesn't come. Instead he lays flat on his back, counting the ceiling tiles as the clock ticks away, and then it's been two hours and Mark is still awake. 

Then there's a creaking noise and Mark sits up in bed, alert, and the door opens. And then, then there's Eduardo, closing the door softly behind him and turning to face Mark, expression soft. 

"Eduardo," he says, a beginning to a yet-unformed question, but Eduardo shakes his head and puts a finger over his lips. He hesitates for a moment and Mark holds his breath, but then Eduardo is pulling his shirt over his head and his pajama pants down, striding right toward the bed with a surety that makes Mark shiver. 

His eyes track all over Eduardo as fast as they can, but before he can see all of him Eduardo is pulling up the sheet to climb into the bed, taking Mark’s face in his hands and kissing him. 

Mark groans into it, finally letting himself acknowledge how much he wants this. He runs his hands over everywhere he can reach--Eduardo’s back, skimming over his ribcage, his ass. Eduardo kisses frantic and greedy, like he’s waited too long for this, gasping at Mark’s touch. It doesn’t take long for him to follow suit, hands scrabbling at Mark’s underwear, pulling them down and off, tossing them off the side of the bed. He kisses down Mark’s neck and then _bites_ lightly there, just enough to sting a little. Mark’s fingers clench in the sheets, and he feels a little bit like he’s on fire, sparks licking up his spine and they haven’t even really started yet. 

Eduardo is rutting between his thighs and Mark rolls his hips up in response. The friction does amazing things, the heat and messy _rawness_ of it enough to get them off, he’s sure, but _god_ , he wants so much more than that. He wants all of Eduardo, whatever he can have. 

He flips them over so that Eduardo’s back is against the mattress, taking in the delicious flush to his cheeks and the way his chest is heaving, the way his lips curl up into an expectant smile as Mark angles in to kiss him. He wants to drink Eduardo in, kissing the lobe of his ear and the papery skin over his pulse, his chin, the hollow of his collarbone, his chest, his nipples, his bellybutton-- _everywhere_. 

When he finally looks up Eduardo is shaking ever so slightly, hands tangled in Mark’s hair and his lip tugged between his teeth. Mark wants more, but he feels like he should ask. “Can I--”

“Anything,” Eduardo answers breathlessly, nodding fast. His pupils are blown wide, eyes dark, and Mark runs a hand lightly over the inside of his thigh just to see him shiver. 

He dips lower, kissing the bend of Eduardo’s knee and the jut of his hipbone before finally moving to suck the tip of Eduardo’s cock into his mouth. 

“ _Mark_ ,” Eduardo lets out in a choked sob, tugging harder at his hair, thumping his head on the pillow above. “Mark, god, yes.”

Mark sucks at him, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue, bobbing his head until Eduardo’s knees draw up and he’s making needy, whimpering sounds that he’s attempting to stifle into the pillow. He thrusts his hips up minutely, like he’s trying to resist, and Mark feels something giddy and possessive thrill through him as he holds Eduardo’s hips down, pressing his fingers into the skin hard enough to make Eduardo’s golden skin go white. Then he moves lower, starting with tentative kisses and then little kitten licks, stroking over Eduardo’s cock with slow pulls. 

Eduardo is letting out drawn-out, desperate noises now, sprinkled with gasping Portuguese that Mark thinks is probably not polite for wider use. And then Mark starts driving his tongue inside in preparation for a few minutes, and Eduardo is pushing back into it, shaking so much that Mark is _sure_ , he has to be ready. 

He sits up and Eduardo whines at the loss of sensation, reaching for Mark with grabby hands. “C’mon, c’mon,” Eduardo begs, half-plea and half-whisper as Mark brackets Eduardo’s head with his arms, lining himself up. 

“Wardo,” Mark breathes as he pushes in all at once, relishing the catch in Eduardo’s breath. The first syllable slipped without a second thought; Mark is too drunk on this feeling to think too much of it. He leans down, burying his face in Eduardo’s neck so that they are pressed cheek-to-cheek. Together they move, Eduardo’s knees on either side of Mark’s body, skin against skin everywhere they can touch. 

They gasp against each other’s cheeks, biting off their sounds in an effort to keep quiet. Eduardo sucks a hickey into Mark’s neck where no one can see and Mark feels like he could _cry_ , that’s how fucking good this feels. Their movements become frantic in no time, seeking more, and Mark can tell he’s hitting Eduardo’s prostate from the way he goes all boneless and pliant beneath Mark, colored all golden and pink, eyes almost glassed over as he pants for breath, hands holding Mark’s face, fingers splayed across his cheeks. 

It has been much, _much_ too long since he did this, so before he even knows it he’s coming, thrusts becoming erratic as he groans lowly into Eduardo’s skin. Eduardo murmurs soft-sounding words in Portuguese that Mark doesn’t understand and runs a hand down his back, probably going for soothing, but it’s a little too soon and Mark shivers. 

Eduardo laughs but it sounds tight, and it takes a moment or two for Mark to regain his senses and realize that Eduardo hasn’t come yet. Mark fumbles a hand over Eduardo’s cock, a couple strokes and a thumb over the head, biting gently at Eduardo’s collarbone to leave a perfect set of teeth marks there, and then Eduardo is spilling over his fingers. 

After they've both come down and caught their breath, Eduardo meets his gaze and then for some reason they're both just _laughing_ , genuine and giddy and stupid, stupid for each other. Mark is pink cheeked with it, and he doesn't think that he's ever been this happy--he's definitely never laughed during sex, that's for sure. But everything about Eduardo is just contagious like that, in a way that makes Mark not at all surprised. 

He moves to pull out and Eduardo winces, just a little, and Mark drops a sympathetic kiss to his forehead in apology before rolling over to lay on his back, pushing the sweaty curls off his forehead. 

"Fine," Eduardo pants, words colored with a little bit of a teasing pout, "But I hope you recover fast, because I want to give it another go." Mark turns his head and grins wickedly at him before returning his ridiculously wide smile back up to the ceiling, so that Eduardo doesn't have to witness this moment of insipid feeling. 

Eduardo rolls onto one side, snuggling in closer to Mark’s side. He narrows his eyes a little as he looks at him, and Mark can’t help but squirm a little under Eduardo’s heavy gaze. He turns to meet his eyes, feeling a little more comfortable when he sees an intimate, pleased but curious curl to Eduardo’s lips. 

“What?”

Eduardo pauses, looking down and then back up, biting his lip. When he speaks, it is in a murmur, and a careful one at that--Mark gets the feeling that Eduardo is choosing his words carefully, evidenced by the tremor in his voice. “Why did you think you knew me?" 

The answer pops into his head immediately, but he has to roll his eyes at himself for his sappiness (which, Jesus, he's a writer but he isn't usually this sentimental--and then he thinks maybe it's Eduardo's influence, maybe it's...), an expression Eduardo catches, giving him a ghost of a smile. 

He lifts his trembling hand and presses it right over Eduardo's heart, slow and careful. "Because," he replies, fragile syllables in the darkness, "Because I did." 

Eduardo's expression goes soft and overcome, and he curls a hand around Mark's neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Mark kisses back, meaning it more than he ever has. 

Mark is a logical guy. He never really believed in any of that a year ago--fate, God, any of it--and he certainly didn't buy into it after days in the desperate swamps of Guadalcanal. But after meeting Eduardo, this trek out of hell and straight into heaven, he thinks maybe there's some truth to it. 

//

The next day is Sunday, so Eduardo doesn’t have to work, and absolutely no one cares where Mark is. 

However, Sunday does mean that Mrs. Saverin gets up in the morning to go to church, so Mark does get the pleasure of seeing Eduardo wake up and tumble out of bed, cursing in Portuguese and rubbing sleep from his eyes just when the first streaks of light are starting to appear. It wakes Mark, but he wouldn’t want to miss out on this--Eduardo fumbling around for his pajama bottoms on the floor as Mark laughs quietly, and then before long they’re both giggling softly, while Eduardo tries to quiet them both to no avail. 

At the last moment, Mark tugs at the waist of his pants, growing smile on his lips. Eduardo turns, grinning as well, and it’s like he’s read Mark’s mind, because then he’s holding Mark’s face in his hands and pulling him in for a lazy morning kiss, just what Mark was seeking. 

He lets out this regretful noise into Mark’s mouth as he starts to pull away, a blushing, sheepish look on his face as he tiptoes out that Mark wants to cherish forever. Instead, he just lies back in bed, spent, and blinks up at the ceiling, smiling stupidly. 

Later, Mark emerges clean and dressed to find Mrs. Saverin and Eduardo already awaiting him in the kitchen, a mug of coffee waiting for him as Mrs. Saverin fries up some bacon, asking how he slept. Mark watches Eduardo hide his giddy expression into his coffee cup and answers, pulling out a chair to sit across from him while they wait for breakfast. 

Eduardo tangles his socked feet with Mark’s own under the table, and Mark wants to stay here forever. 

//

Mrs. Saverin puts them to work in the garden. She kneels in the flowerbeds and pulls weeds and equips the both of them with hedge clippers, waving them off to the bushes on the other side of the yard with her huge, floppy sunhat. 

They talk, and laugh, and Mark admires the way that the sun shines through Eduardo’s hair, and do very little work. 

“So what do you do when you’re. Um,” Eduardo asks, awkwardly hedging around the uncomfortable reality of _why_ Mark is here. 

Mark appreciates that he didn’t say the words; he can fill them in just fine in his head. _What do you do when you’re not trying your best just to stay alive. Rotting away in a swamp that is the closest thing to hell you’ve ever encountered. Killing Japs_. There’s no variation that doesn’t make Mark wince. 

“I’m a writer,” he replies, not quite meeting Eduardo’s eye, focusing instead on the bushes. 

“A writer,” Eduardo repeats, tone completely void of judgment like he’s trying it on, rolling it around on his tongue. “What do you write?”

Mark pulls a face. “Sports recaps for the county paper, mostly.” He chances a glance upward, wanting to see Eduardo’s reaction, but can’t find much of anything there. He’s looking at Mark consideringly, kindly, just… waiting for him to continue, like he knows there’s more. 

“But, um,” Mark finally tries, lowering his voice a little and looking away. “I also write some poetry. And just, like, snippets of conversations here and there, descriptions of things I see. Little bits and pieces of things that could become--I dunno. Something. Someday.”

There’s a moment’s pause between them before Mark hears Eduardo say, “A _writer_ ,” in a completely different tone from before. This time it’s something almost awestruck, full of wonder, like he’s _proud_. Sure enough, when Mark looks at him Eduardo is beaming right at him, and for a second, Mark can’t breathe. 

He feels himself flush and turns away, muttering, “Yeah, well.” He’s not quite embarrassed, just genuinely _shy_ about it--not even in a false modesty type of way. Sometimes he feels like with words he can change the world in ways he can’t even fully grasp, like it’s bigger than him. He doesn’t know how to explain it, as much as he wishes he could. “What about you?” he tacks on. 

“Oh,” Eduardo answers: a short, unhappy sound. He frowns, concentrating on clipping at the hedges, wiping at his brow. “I run my father’s business. Deal with the money, manage everything, you know. Nothing exciting.” 

It comes out like he doesn’t particularly care, but Mark can read the tension radiating out from his body language in the set of his jaw, the slight slump of his shoulders. “Hm,” Mark answers noncommittally. He doesn’t want to ask any more, not if it makes Eduardo so obviously unhappy. 

“Ay, boys!” Mrs. Saverin calls from around the corner. “We should take a break, go inside and get some water.”

Eduardo’s face returns to the calm of before, easing right back into a natural smile as he rolls his eyes fondly, setting his hedge clippers down on the ground. “Whatever you say, Mae.”

“That is what I like to hear,” she replies with a smile of her own, following behind, patting Mark on the arm as she passes him by. “You missed a spot,” she teases, laughing. 

//

Time passes slowly, and Mark wonders sometimes if this is a gift for something he might have done right in a past life. He checks in when he has to, but spends as much time as he can at Saverin house. It feels like home in an incredibly comforting way, like a sanctuary where he can just forget where he’s been the last couple months, all the things he’s seen and everything that’s happened to him. 

He’ll usually spend the morning and afternoon at the stadium with Dustin and Chris, for whom the shine of new surroundings has worn off. Dustin’s luck with the ladies slipped through his fingers as always (Chris always ducks his head with a secret smile when Dustin talks about it), so they spend most of their time dicking around at the base or exploring Melbourne together--getting drunk and getting lost. Dustin seems fine, the same silly wide smile he’s always had, and Chris looks more like his old self again, so Mark doesn’t worry too much. Maybe he’d underestimated them; maybe this time is better for them than he expected.

After that, he heads over to the Saverin’s around the time Eduardo gets home from work to eat dinner with them and then listen to the radio, or help around the house, or sit around talking, or whatever they’re currently doing that evening. 

Mrs. Saverin will head off to bed, offering Mark the guest room, which he thanks her for and takes. And then, as soon as the house is quiet, Eduardo will sneak into his room and it’s like they come _alive_ , and Mark has never been this lucky in his entire life. 

To see Eduardo and to touch him, to put his hands on warm skin and know that Eduardo is surrendered to him as much as he is surrendered to Eduardo, to hear Eduardo choke out his name as he comes, eyes squeezed shut… Mark is fairly certain nothing else will ever come close to this. He’s finding himself more and more tangled in Eduardo; confessing things and saying things he’s never told anyone when they’re pressed up against each other in bed, satisfied and sleepy, just to listen to Eduardo hum in response or laugh in the right moments and know that Eduardo has more of him than anyone else ever has. To have the privilege of listening to Eduardo tell stories of his own, and to love him more after each and every one.

(Because Mark won’t deny it now. He’s in love with Eduardo. He thinks he may regret it when-- _if_ \--he leaves here, but. He’s come to feel that he couldn’t quite help it.)

//

He’s writing one evening, curled up in the big leather armchair that Mrs. Saverin sometimes looks at with sad eyes and that Eduardo avoids like the plague. The two of them are currently doing the dishes and making tea in the kitchen, chatting easily between them. It sounds far-off to Mark but still makes everything feel cozy. He can feel the love and laughter in the conversation even from far away, and it feels so comfortable, so much like home, that he dozes off right there. 

Next thing he knows he feels a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. He opens his eyes blearily, feeling a little out of it, but Eduardo smiling down at him is the first thing he sees and immediately he can’t help but smile. Eduardo’s fingers curl intimately around his shoulder and Mark exhales. 

“Hey,” Eduardo says, slow, mouth curving pleasantly as Mark straightens up a little, possession easing back into his limbs. Eduardo moves his hand slowly, reaching up to Mark’s head to sweep away a few stray curls, lingering there for a moment, an affectionate look in his eye. 

“Mm,” Mark murmurs back, resting his head against Eduardo’s hand, still muzzly from sleep. Eduardo laughs, quiet and light as Mark closes his eyes again, breathing in. 

“Mae went up to bed,” Eduardo explains as he folds himself up to sit on the floor, resting his chin on Mark’s knee. 

“Already?” Mark asks without opening his eyes, yawning. “What about tea?”

Eduardo laughs a little louder. “Tea was an hour ago, Mark.” He points at a mug placed on a coaster on the coffee table near Mark. “When I brought you yours, you were even somewhat awake,” he explains, mirth glittering in his voice. “I’m sure it’s cold now,” he adds, and Mark can feel him readjusting, resting his cheek on Mark’s shin. Mark’s fingers reach clumsily and heavy with sleep but find Eduardo’s hair, carding through the short ones at the back and then thumbing over the crown of his head, drowsy and slow. But he likes the way Eduardo hums into it, happy and content. 

Mark forces his eyes open, blinking a couple times until his vision adjusts and he can see Eduardo clearly. Eduardo smiles at him, small and with an edge of something private that makes an electric current thrill through Mark. “Wanna go to bed?” he asks. 

Eduardo shakes his head slowly, a hesitant and shy smile on his face. “Mark,” he says, the Portuguese curling around the _a_ and the _r_ , making it soft and round, the way Mark likes to hear Eduardo say it. “Read me something.”

Mark is puzzled for a second before Eduardo’s fingers hedge their way up into his lap, around the corners of Mark’s journal, a plea in his eyes. Mark nods, takes a breath, and reads. 

He watches Eduardo’s face at the words, the way they sink into him and churn in his eyes, making them blaze. Mark’s fingers tremble a little as he turns the page, not nerves but an excess of feeling--he’s never done this before, shared _these_ words with anybody. Sure, he’ll read a bit of whatever letter he’s writing when someone teases him about it but his poetry is a completely different story. 

Yet Eduardo is looking at him like it’s the most matter-of-fact, easy, perfect thing in the world. And Mark doesn’t know how he got so lucky. 

He finishes, and Eduardo looks up at him with a simple, genuine smile that makes him look childlike, for some reason. “That was beautiful,” he says, voice hushed, eyes shining. 

Mark looks at him incredulously for a moment, and then without even thinking about it, draws Eduardo’s face into both his hands and kisses him, something stinging sharp behind his own eyes. 

//

Sometimes at night, Mark has bad dreams. Terrible, terrible dreams. 

They make him feel like he’s right back there and no time has passed, like the past months have just been some beautiful dream, all too good to be true and too far out of reach. That, more than anything else, makes his chest tight. 

Maybe the worst part is how _realistic_ they are. The bombs are just as loud, just as bright, just as inescapable. The rapid fire of a gun, much too close. People screaming out in pain and yelling for each other, shouting out directions. The sound of _chaos_ , the thick heat of the swamp and the sweltering blaze of the sun, the smell of mud and sweat and blood. 

The panicked feeling that he can’t get out. 

On these nights, the escape is when Eduardo shakes him awake. The relief that Mark feels when he sees Eduardo coalesce into view--the concerned knit between his eyebrows, the sure, steady pressure of his hand in Mark’s--is quite unlike anything else Mark has ever experienced. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Eduardo will murmur as he helps Mark sit up, pulling him into a hug. “You’re here, _querido_.” 

Mark bites down on his lower lip to keep from crying, though his cheeks are always already wet when he wakes, so he knows he’s been doing it in his sleep. He takes gasping, shuddering breaths, gulping for air, and Eduardo will hold him and rub his back until he stops shaking, until his teeth stop chattering, even in the mess of the sweaty sheets that Mark has just soaked through. 

When Mark can speak, _breathe_ right again, Eduardo will untangle himself to dart into the adjoining bathroom and get some clean ones, easing Mark up and holding his hand while he makes the bed, leading him from one place to the other. Then they will crawl back in and Eduardo will press himself all along Mark's back, warming, kiss his temple and murmur, "Good night, _querido_ ," like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. He tangles their fingers together and Mark mimics the rhythm of his breathing so that he can fall back asleep easily, always a little bit worried to close his eyes again, in case the dreams are waiting for him again there. 

Mark doesn't know what " _querido_ " means and he's not sure he wants to. Not out of fear because it must be good, but because it has taken on its own meaning for him now, and Mark doesn't want to contradict it. 

It is the word that is his savior, taking his hand and leading him out of hell and back into safety. 

//

They’re in the little wood behind Eduardo’s house. They’d told his mother they were going on a walk, and, technically speaking, they had. They’d sort of ambled around for half an hour without any real sense of urgency, just talking about nothing and everything all at once. And then Eduardo had said that his feet were tired, and he’d tangled his fingers in Mark’s, pulling him down against the nearest tree so that Mark tripped over his own feet, and they’d both fallen to the ground with their backs against it, laughing. 

Eduardo had still been holding his hand, and then when they caught their breath, he’d surged right in and kissed him, smiling against his mouth, and that had been that. 

So now Eduardo is in his lap while Mark’s back is against this massive tree, and Eduardo is riding him at a torturously slow pace. Eduardo’s pants are down around his ankles and his shirt is long on him, falling mid-thigh, but Mark can still see the raised red trail where he ran his nails just a few minutes earlier--markings of want, of possession, that had made Eduardo whimper. But now Mark is clutching at his back with needy, fumbling fingers, urging him on, wanting so much more of this. 

“Jesus Mark, that feels so… that feels so…” Eduardo pants, trailing off in a whine that Mark needs to taste in his mouth, to see if it’s as sweet on his tongue as it is to his ears. Eduardo kisses back with abandon, rolling his hips still at this maddeningly unhurried rhythm, breath hitching into Mark’s mouth. 

Mark presses his hips up just like _that_ , and Eduardo groans into his mouth, kiss turning lazy as Eduardo goes sort of boneless, and now it’s Mark’s turn to angle a grin into his mouth. He bites lightly at Eduardo’s lower lip and Eduardo lets out this delicious sound, and suddenly he’s going faster, thank _God_. 

He pulls away from Eduardo’s mouth to press his nose into the hollow of his collarbone, breathing hot and arrhythmic against Eduardo’s skin. Eduardo’s fingers are pressing into the back of Mark’s neck and Mark thinks out of nowhere that he could stay here forever. He doesn’t care that they’re in the middle of a fucking _forest_ and that his trousers are pooled uncomfortably around his knees, or that he’s getting dirt on the shirt that Eduardo’s mother lent him or that theoretically they could be discovered at any moment. He would choose this moment over being home, he would choose it over warm nights around the Saverin dinner table, he would choose this over getting his writing published. This is something he wants to carry with him the rest of his life, whether that means in the swamp of a war zone again or back in the States or wherever; he _wants_ it, wants it branded on his heart or to carry it on his skin like a tattoo. 

“ _God_ ,” Eduardo gasps and Mark flushes at the sound, nudging his way into the curve where Eduardo’s neck meets shoulder. Eduardo moves his hands, tangling his fingers in the curls at the nape of Mark’s neck, pulling just slightly, enough to make Mark shudder. 

They’re going fast now, riding a graceless pace to the finish, and Mark wraps a hand slowly around Eduardo’s cock, hot and leaking, pumping once and then again, relishing Eduardo’s drawn out whine and then the way he spills messily over Mark’s fingers. 

“You… y-you…” he breathes, cracked and perfect, beautiful. He tips Mark’s face up with two fingers and their eyes meet, and it knocks the wind out of Mark to see the bright tenderness on Eduardo’s face, something too soon to call love but Mark doesn’t know any other word for it. “Mark,” Eduardo murmurs, still moving, and Mark has to look away--he can’t handle the furious blush he knows is painted across his cheekbones, overwhelmed by the way Eduardo is looking at him like he’s something timeless, infinite. 

Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, crushing his mouth into Eduardo’s and kissing him until he can’t breathe. Eduardo kisses back, fingers slowly caressing from the soft curls at his hairline to the knot at the top of his spine, gentle, almost like he’s trying to calm Mark, slow him down. And then Mark comes, groaning low into Eduardo’s mouth and they can both feel it buzzing on their lips, and Eduardo hums in response, lethargic and content. 

Mark collapses, leaning heavily against the tree to his back as Eduardo slowly removes himself, wincing a little as Mark slips out of him. They both pull their pants back up, straightening themselves a little, and then Eduardo folds himself into Mark’s side, snaking an arm across his waist. It is quiet for a moment, and they breathe. 

“We should get back,” Mark says after a few minutes, fingers caressing idly through Eduardo’s hair, more out of a sense of obligation than anything. He doesn’t want to--he’d rather not, actually, but he’s trying not to be selfish about this. Eduardo deserves more than that. 

“No,” Eduardo says immediately, wrapping loose fingers around Mark’s wrist as if to keep him there. He hides his face slightly in Mark’s chest, closing his eyes. “Let’s stay a little while.” 

Mark takes it in for a second, realizing that there are darkened circles under Eduardo’s eyes and his hand curled hesitantly around Mark’s wrist. There is so much beneath the surface of Eduardo, so much that Mark wants to know but will never have the time for, he knows. There’s something coming and he can’t ignore it, the creeping feeling of anticipation that rages in his blood sometimes, screaming at him that all of this is temporary, that he shouldn’t get too attached. 

Little too late for that last one. 

He pushes Eduardo’s hair back off his forehead and presses a kiss there, resting his chin against the top of Eduardo’s head, and wishing futilely for a million more days of just this.

//

“Who’s Erica?” Eduardo asks one evening as Mark comes out of the adjoining bathroom. His voice is not demanding, just desperate. Like he has to know. He holds himself off to side, sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in the sheets and eyes fixed on the ground.

Mark’s brow furrows and he’s silent for a second before his eyes flit over to the journal he’d left open on the bedside table, pages splayed. He’d bookmarked his place with the bundle of letters he’d written for Erica throughout his time in combat, never sent. It’s a thick stack, tied up with red string, and Mark will admit it looks suspicious. 

“What?” Mark asks, moving away from the doorframe to stand in front of Eduardo, until their toes are touching. Eduardo curls his away. 

He looks up at Mark, absolutely, fiercely brave, and asks, “Are you going to marry her?”

Mark shoots him a confused look. “Wardo, what the hell--”

“I just.” He tenses, looking past Mark instead of directly at him. “I want to know. I want to know if you have someone waiting for you.”

Mark has to fight the urge to laugh, biting down on his lip. Him and _Erica_?

He won’t lie to himself; once upon a time he had considered it. In a way, he knows they could be happy together--or at least, as happy as he could imagine himself being in that kind of life. Maybe even a couple of kids and a dog, a steady job at the paper, a house twenty minutes from their neighborhood growing up. 

A life that he doesn’t even consider for a second anymore. Somewhat because it would be unfair to Erica (he’s selfish and he knows it), but mostly because he couldn’t settle for something like that after having _this_. 

“Wardo,” Mark says, watching Eduardo wipe stubbornly at his eyes, and then kneeling to be on his level when he refuses to look up. 

“First of all, she’s much too good for me,” he admits, which is true of course, but just makes Eduardo scoff and roll his eyes because he doesn’t like it when Mark talks about himself like that. Mark takes a breath and tries a different approach, placing his hands gently on Eduardo’s knees. Eduardo meets his eyes, squirming a little bit under his gaze. 

“She’s a friend,” Mark admits, in the most honest voice he can. “She’s a good friend, but I’m not. I’m not in love with her.” 

“You’re not?” Eduardo asks immediately, fast and clear. 

“No,” Mark answers, choking around the word. “I’ve never--I’ve never been in love until--until you,” he says, giving equal weight to every word. 

He feels a little bit brave to admit that out loud, no matter how many times he’s thought it. He thinks about it when he’s about to fall asleep and when he sees Eduardo first thing in the morning and when they go to bed together and when Eduardo smiles so hard his whole face goes crinkly and when they make love, but putting those words out in the universe like this is a very different thing. It crystallizes it, makes it a real, tangible thing. Something they can break.

Eduardo’s eyes go wide and Mark feels himself shaking, and he laughs self-deprecatingly at the whole situation. Eduardo’s hands slide over his own, tangling their fingers together tight. 

“Me?” he squeaks, an almost disbelieving smile lighting up his features, and Mark has never seen him this openly happy. He swears there might be tears in Eduardo’s eyes. Mark nods, worrying at his lower lip, and only when Eduardo exhales shakily does Mark realize that he’s been holding his breath. 

Eduardo leans down, crushing his lips to Mark’s. Mark can taste the salt of his tears and feel the heat of his cheeks, and he laughs into the kiss, overwhelmed, hiccupping with feeling. 

“I--” Eduardo gasps as he pulls back, pressing their foreheads fervently together, eyes shut. “I love you too, Mark. I love you too.” 

“Wardo,” Mark breathes back, and he feels like something bright and heavy is about to just burst right out of his chest. His heart is pounding about a thousand miles a minute and he hears his own voice cracking. He’s never _done_ this, he’s never _felt like_ this, has always considered himself somewhat resistant to the sentimentality and sappiness of life but now he knows it’s just because he hasn’t been in love before--he is exactly as sappy and sentimental as the rest of them. Maybe no one is immune. 

“Come here,” Eduardo says, pleading in his voice, pulling Mark down and on top of him. Mark goes, still trembling, and Eduardo wraps his arms around him tight, holds him until both their tears dry and there is nothing left but the two of them together, same as it has been for these wonderful months. Mark buries his face in Eduardo’s neck and breathes, slow. 

He feels Eduardo press a soft kiss into his curls right as he falls asleep. 

//

Mrs. Saverin has a habit of going through the obituary section of the paper every morning, which is not unfamiliar to Mark. His own mother used to do it at home, even before the war, so he's more than used to it. But Eduardo hates it. 

He can't really seem to articulate why; whenever Mark asks he just starts to stutter and get all red-faced and maybe a little embarrassed, but nevertheless, Mark doesn't get an answer. Eduardo just storms out of the room in a huff. 

Funnily enough, this doesn't seem to bother Mrs. Saverin one bit. She sometimes still calls out names to Eduardo, asking whether or not they sound familiar, though he never responds. 

Mark sits in there with her because, as sappy as it is, it reminds him of his own home and he likes that. 

"That boy, just a few months ago, he would sit with me. Same as you," Mrs. Saverin sighs one day, turning the page. "I do not know what's changed."

Mark's brow furrows and his pen pauses above the page. She does not look up at him, but he turns her words over in his head, wondering why that could be the case. He's still somewhere lost in thought when he hears Mrs. Saverin let out a soft, "Oh."

Mark looks at her and she is ashen, fingers shaking slightly on the edges of the thin pages. "What is it?" Mark asks, and when she makes no answer, rising and walking over, kneeling to look at her better. Her lips are pressed together tightly and Mark turns, calling for Eduardo, who comes rushing in shortly with a panicked expression. 

"What's wrong, Mae?" he asks, kneeling beside Mark. She looks up at him and her eyes are brimming with tears, and one trembling fingertip points to a small square obituary, without a photo. 

_Brendon Lee_ , it reads. 

//

Later, when they’re curled up in bed together in the dark, Eduardo explains it all. They are curved inward, facing each other like parentheses. Eduardo thumbs over the jut of Mark’s wrist and keeps his gaze unfocused there, like he can’t quite look Mark in the eye. He explains how the Lees live a block or two over, and how they were really the first family the Saverins befriended here. 

“I never really knew Brendon that well, because he was older than me,” he whispers. “Mostly I knew his sister Christy. She was my best friend for a few years.” He laughs a little but with a bitter tone, rubbing a hand over his face. “God, I had such a crush on him when I was younger.”

Mark keeps silent, waiting for him to continue. It feels strange, really, because for all the soldiers here in Melbourne it feels like the war has been kept out, to some extent, and this intrusion of death into their everyday lives has shaken the feeling of safety that’s surrounded them these last few months. 

Mrs. Saverin has already said she wants him to come to the funeral, and the wake afterwards. Mark doesn’t feel like he should. Not only does he not know these people, he doesn’t feel like they’d appreciate a soldier showing up, not after what happened. Mark turns over onto his back and sighs, staring up at the ceiling and hating this whole situation. 

Eduardo nudges closer, pressing himself along Mark’s side, warm and solid. “Please come,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Mark’s shoulder. “I… I need you. I need to know you’re there with me.” 

Mark feels the words form soft against his skin, and knows right then that he will give in. He fumbles for Eduardo’s hand in the darkness and finds it, twining their fingers together with a gentle but reassuring pressure. “Wardo…” he begins, unable to get the hesitant tone out of his voice. 

“ _Please_ ,” Eduardo cuts in, a fragile and reedy plea. “Mark, I just…” his voice cracks and he presses his forehead against Mark’s shoulder, and Mark can feel the wetness of Eduardo’s tears against his skin. 

“Shh,” Mark hushes him, moving so that he’s holding Eduardo, arms around him. “I will. Wardo, I will.”

Eduardo sniffles and nods in acknowledgement, but the tears don’t stop, and it feels a bit like Mark’s heart is all tied up in knots. Mark skates his fingers softly down Eduardo’s spine and tries to comfort him, waiting for Eduardo’s breaths to even out. 

He’s suddenly reminded of Mrs. Saverin’s words about not knowing why Eduardo didn’t sit with her when she reads the obituaries anymore, and he thinks he understands how lost she must feel about it. He feels pretty lost right now, to be honest. But this is Eduardo, and he wants to be there for him, whatever he needs. 

Eduardo pulls back and kisses Mark hard, blistering with feeling, gripping Mark’s shoulders. It is a fierce kiss, and Mark pulls back, expression furrowed, trying to puzzle out the reason for it. 

“Wardo, what--”

“Fuck me,” Wardo pants, pulling Mark closer, fingernails biting in Mark’s flesh. “Mark, please.” He’s half-sobbing with it already, begging, but Mark can still see the tear-tracks down his face and he wishes he could _understand_ , wishes he knew how to fix this. 

“Wardo,” Mark says, strong, disconnecting himself from where Eduardo is kissing underneath his earlobe. “Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you doing this?”

Eduardo’s head falls back onto the pillow and he covers his face with his hands, letting out a shuddery breath. “I just--I don’t want to think. Just for a little while,” he explains, voice small and scared. A lump appears inexplicably in Mark’s throat as he watches Eduardo wipe at his eyes, blushing and embarrassed. 

Mark pushes a stray lock of hair off Eduardo’s forehead, gentle, waiting for Eduardo to meet his eyes. He does, and Mark can see the vulnerability and fear and worry in them, and he leans down and kisses Eduardo tenderly, slow and deliberate. Eduardo sighs into the kiss and kisses back, again and again, until he starts smiling into each and every one. Mark smiles back, in between kisses, feeling a little bit proud of himself to know that _he_ did that; he helped bring Eduardo back to himself this time. 

“Please,” Eduardo murmurs, and this time it is honest and true, so Mark kisses him one more time, and does. 

//

It turns out Mark actually can’t go to the funeral, because of some Marine Corps thing he has to go to. But he promises Eduardo and Mrs. Saverin that he’ll be there for the wake, and so he takes a bus from the stadium and into their neighborhood, meeting them at their front door. 

He’s in uniform not just because he just came from a military thing but also because it’s the nicest set of clothes he owns right now, and none of Eduardo’s clothes really fit him well enough to wear (they tried that). Eduardo is wearing a simple black suit and Mrs. Saverin is wearing an elegant black dress and a black hat to match. They both give him weary, tired attempts at smiles and Mrs. Saverin leads the way, walking three feet in front of them down the sidewalk as they head toward the Lee house, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief every once in a while. 

“The service was very nice, of course, but Mae cried the whole way through it,” Eduardo says just low enough for Mark to hear as they follow her, albeit at a slower pace. He shakes his head. “I don’t know why this is hitting her so hard.” He bites down on his lip and Mark rubs a reassuring hand over his back quickly, taking care not to linger, and Eduardo shoots him a grateful smile. 

The wake is crowded when they get there. Mrs. Saverin can’t stop crying and Eduardo looks fairly lost, eyes glazed over most of the time when they’re not in a conversation, leaning silently against the arm of the living room couch. Mark stays at his elbow, wishing with everything in him that he could reach out and touch Wardo right now, just to see the light spring back into his eyes, to get some sort of reminder that it’s still there, just hiding. People drift in and out to talk to them and Eduardo introduces Mark over and over as a “friend of the family”, which makes Mark grit his teeth a little bit. Not because of the obvious, but because of the way that everyone then eyes his uniform with lingering questions in their eyes that they don’t have the courage to voice. The truth would just make everything so much easier. 

Mark explains his situation; he’s not ashamed of it and it’s not that bad. He gets mixed reactions: some people call him a hero, some people look like they may vomit on his shoes, and some people couldn’t care less. That’s the only reaction Mark thinks he understands, right now. But he expresses his condolences and everyone seems thankful for them, though equally overwhelmed by the mindboggling finality of it all. 

After a few hours, Eduardo has had more than enough to drink and Mrs. Saverin looks exhausted, so Mark elbows Eduardo lightly and suggests they head back. Eduardo nods, eyes unfocused, and mutters about running to the bathroom first, stopping by his mother to tell her they’re getting ready to go as he does so. 

Mark heads to the door, intending on waiting there since he’ll be fairly out of the way, but a sharp-looking woman by the stairs stops him. 

“Who are you?” she asks, and the words don’t sound exhausted or flat but stinging, like she spat them out. “What are you doing here?” She looks fairly familiar and suddenly Mark recognizes her from the pictures hanging on the living room walls--the ones right next to the boy that was buried earlier today. This must be Christy.

“Excuse me, my apologies--I’m Mark Zuckerberg and I’m very sorry for your loss--” he tries, extending a hand, which she looks at with distaste. 

“Get out of here,” she says lowly, eyes catching on his uniform and expression twisting into a grimace. 

Mark is stumbling over his words, trying to explain, when Eduardo shows up, apparently having spied the situation from across the room on his way out of the bathroom and rushing over, separating Mark and Christy. 

“Christy, it’s okay,” he assures her, voice soft and careful. “He’s a friend of mine, Mark Zuckerberg. He’s one of the marines stuck here right now, friend of the family.” Christy turns her bright eyes on him quickly, face still defiant. “He’s okay,” Eduardo repeats, and then all of the sudden her face crumples, and she throws herself against Eduardo's chest, fisting handfuls of his suit jacket. 

"Why did he--" she sobs, cutting herself off with ragged gasps for breath. "Eduardo, _Brendon_..."

Eduardo shushes her gently, smoothing a hand in her hair and rocking her slowly back and forth. He looks like he's holding himself together though, so Mark ducks outside to wait, since he's clearly not doing any good here. He shouldn't have come. 

The sun is just starting to set, and it comes through the clouds bright at this time of day, coating everything in a pinky-gold. Mark sits on the steps and rests his head in his hands, breathing in and out, again and again. 

He thinks a lot about the differences in death, this side compared to the other. Neither is better, they're just different. They make him ache in different ways, different places, and he doesn't like that. He likes predictability and he likes experience, and he doesn't like feeling like he's floundering around without a clue of what to do. 

It's not long before he hears the door creak open behind him and he jumps up as Eduardo and Mrs. Saverin join him. Together, they walk back home. 

//

_“All things are a flowing,_  
_Sage Heracleitus says;_  
_But a tawdry cheapness_  
_Shall outlast our days.”_

//

Mark shows up at Eduardo's house the next week to find him already waiting on the front stoop, tension cooled in every line of his body. 

"Wardo," he says, voice matter of fact, stopping to stand in front of him. 

Eduardo looks up and smiles automatically. "Hey." Mark should find this reassuring, but his mind is too busy cataloging the way Eduardo's eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, the way he's sniffling just a little bit. 

"What's wrong?" Mark asks immediately, because he is simply too impatient to beat around the bush when his mind is running in circles about what could possibly have happened, already somewhat sick to his stomach with the possibility that it could be his fault. Maybe someone found out about them and tried to hurt Wardo, or his mom. Mark's hands clench into nervous fists. 

Eduardo exhales, rough and shaky, and he looks up at Mark a little bit pleadingly. "Let's go around back?" he suggests, as Mark nods quickly. Eduardo rises to his feet and heads towards the gate and Mark follows, stomach churning with nerves. 

They end up sitting at the little patio table in the Saverin backyard, chairs close together. Eduardo is silent for a moment, picking at bits of lint on his trousers while Mark watches him attentively. It is a sign of how grave the situation is that Mark finds the sight of Eduardo biting his lip nervously more worrying that attractive. 

"Mark," he finally begins, looking up, voice shaking. Mark nudges his chair closer so that his knee is pressed lightly against Eduardo's, in what he means as a show of silent emotional support. Eduardo casts his eyes down to it and his chin trembles a little, then all of a sudden he exhales unsteadily and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

"Wardo," Mark tries, soft, touching Eduardo's knee with careful, soothing fingers, but Eduardo speaks, all in a rush. 

"I can't do this anymore," he says, and Mark feels his heart plummet down to his feet. 

Mark removes his touch. "What?" he asks, hoping with everything in him that he heard that wrong. It can't--it _can't._

Eduardo exhales, gathering himself and shaking his head, opening his eyes to meet Mark's gaze. "I can't, Mark. You saw what happened to Christy's brother; I just, we--"

"This is because of the war," Mark answers tonelessly, interrupting, but he can't hear Eduardo's voice sound like that anymore. "This is because we don't know what's going to happen? Wardo, we don't even know when I'm going back, if I am at all--"

Eduardo laughs humorlessly, wiping at his eyes. "We keep saying that, but it doesn't really seem likely, does it?" he asks, and there is a note of resignation and bitterness there that hurts Mark's chest. 

"Wardo," Mark tries again, "I could die tomorrow. Get hit by a car walking down the street. This isn't any different," he explains, letting the strength in his voice slip through a little, the desperation.

But Eduardo jolts up from the seat, covering his face with his hands again. "That's just it, don't you get it?" Mark rises too, taking Eduardo's hands in his own and pulling them away from his face to see him. His eyes are filled with tears. "If you die, it isn't just _me_ who gets hurt. Mae loses you too, and I can't do that to her. Not after Pai." He shakes his head, tangling his fingers with Mark's, almost clinging. 

"Listen, Mark," he says, taking Mark's face in his hands so their eyes meet. Mark hates it, hates seeing the pain and love in Eduardo's eyes at that moment, can't understand why it has to be this way. But Eduardo is hurt, and Mark did that--maybe not directly, but, their situation did that. Mark was a part of that. And that makes it partially his fault. 

He hates himself for that, a little. More than a little. He never wanted to make Eduardo hurt.

"Mark," Eduardo repeats, steeling himself, taking a deep breath. "You don't even-- _God_ , this has been the best ten months of my life, okay?" He's crying now, tears streaming steadily down his cheeks, and there's a lump in Mark's throat that won't go away, and he feels himself let out a sob. 

"But I know... I know that when you leave, it's gonna hurt. Like--like hell. But it's gonna hurt more if I make myself believe that there's some chance that you'll come back one day, or imagining a future with you we could never have, Mark--"

"We _can_ have that," Mark interrupts, voice wobbling, petulant. He knows he sounds like an insistent child but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t care. "One day, we can, we will."

Eduardo's lips curl into a sad smile. "This?" He reaches out and presses his hand over Mark's heart, and Mark closes his eyes and tries to memorize the touch, one last time. "We'll always have this, Mark," he murmurs. "But I don't want to get my hopes up about anything else. I don't... I don't want to ask for too much." His voice drops, low and crackling with honesty, tears picking up. "I want to spend all my energy praying that you live."

“I can’t--I can’t go back to before. Wardo, I don’t know _how_ ,” he chokes out, meaning it so much more than he should. He feels sick to his stomach, like he could vomit, but there’s this sharp twist in his chest that’s telling him he should’ve known all along. That he shouldn’t have let himself get this close, or this invested, or let himself fall in love. There was no way this was going to end happily; it just wasn’t in the cards. Why was he so fucking _stupid_?

“You can,” Eduardo says, nodding even as his own chin trembles. “Mark, you will. You won’t even think of me out there, I promise.”

Mark can feel his expression twist into a bittersweet smile. Clearly Eduardo doesn’t know very much about war--he’s going to be _all_ Mark’s thinking about. “Don’t say that,” he says instead, soft but resolute, shaking his head. 

For some reason, this looks like it’s going to break Eduardo--like there is a very good chance at that moment that he will just take it back on those three words alone.

He doesn't. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath to compose himself, and then looks up, resolute. It's then Mark knows there's nothing he can say or do. 

"I'll tell Mae you're one of the first to get redeployed and didn't have time to say goodbye," he says, voice firm, and Mark feels his own eyes sting with tears, curls his hand around Eduardo's on his chest, giving it a squeeze. 

"Can I write to you?" he asks softly, feeling uncharacteristically nervous. He hears his own voice shaking and his cheeks go red with it, but he doesn't care. Really, he doesn't. This moment is too important to be self-conscious. 

Eduardo nods without a word, and they sit in stillness for a few minutes, like neither of them want to break this last quiet, stolen moment. Neither of them wants to admit this is the end. 

"Oh, god," Wardo finally lets out, choked, surging forward to kiss Mark one final time. It is frantic and desperate and firm, and Mark kisses back with all he has, reaching up to bracket Eduardo's face with his hands, skimming his thumbs lightly over Eduardo's cheekbones. He wants to remember it all, memorize it for later. When he needs it. 

They finally break apart and Mark's breath is coming in terrified, rattling shudders, fingers clutching possessively at the short hairs at the back of Eduardo's neck. Eduardo presses their foreheads together softly and Mark darts in for one more swift kiss, making Eduardo let out something between a laugh and a sob. "I love you," Mark murmurs, voice cracking and wobbling because he has never meant anything more, and he has never wanted anything more. "Wardo, I..."

"Mark," Eduardo rasps, pressing his hand against Mark's aching, racing heart. "I love you too."

"I'll never find somebody else, I'll never--"

Eduardo shakes his head, like he wants to reply but no words come out. His cheeks are tear-stained by now and Mark can't take any more, thinks that if he has to he'll never be able to leave Eduardo here alone. 

So he slowly stands. Eduardo's hands fall slowly to his sides and his hands curl into loose fists, like he's stopping himself from reaching out. Mark looks into his eyes one last time and takes in all their love and warmth, tries to send it all back and more, because Eduardo deserves it all. He deserves so much more than Mark can give. 

Mark wipes at his eyes, sets his jaw and turns, walking out of the backyard and back the way he came. 

//

So he ends up back with everyone else like nothing ever happened. That might be what hurts the most, not having any proof but the impact on his heart, his _soul_. 

Life is much the same back with the others. Dustin still does and says stupid shit which makes Chris laugh and shyly duck his head, they still have funerals and events and everyone still thinks they are heroes for Guadalcanal. Mark feels more and more like it's all a sham, like nothing matters, like they're all just spinning their wheels waiting for something to happen. 

And then it does. 

They get reassigned, sent to Cape Gloucester. There are tearful goodbyes and farewell parties thrown and all of that. No one is happy to be leaving, but Mark feels the saddest of all, because this is really the end. 

There's no chance he'll be walking down the street somewhere and catch a glimpse of Eduardo, just one last time for keeps. This chapter of his life is closing, and he’s moving on, but he feels like he’s leaving a part of himself behind. 

Chris and Dustin treat him with kid gloves. They don’t know why--he hasn’t told them, though he figures Chris might suspect. It’s not that he’s purposefully _not_ telling them, it’s just that he doesn’t think he could go through and relive it all without falling apart. 

When they board a ship and head off to their new destination, the three of them stand on deck and just watch as they pull away. 

“Well,” Dustin says. “Goodbye Melbourne.” He throws an arm amiably over Chris’ shoulders, and Chris blushes, biting his lip, and Mark doesn’t know how to feel, anymore. 

“You’ve been good to us,” Dustin finishes, and Mark pushes away from the railing, turning his back on the receding city with a lump in his throat.

//

At first, it is almost a relief to be back like this. It feels more like real life, and less like something he doesn’t deserve. _This_ part of his life, at the very least, still exists. The shitty food and the stifling heat, the wetness of the jungle and the panic of warfare, the rushing blood and trembling hands. 

But no matter what, Mark can’t talk himself into thinking that it feels _good_. It’s like that feeling when you press and prod at a bruise, and the ache for a second is divine in its familiarity. But it never lasts--you always linger a second too long and then it’s painful. 

He has not missed the sound and smell of gunfire, loud in his ears and sharp in his nostrils. He has not missed the feeling that you are always running on too little sleep, the way your socks and feet never quite dry out. Time still passes frustratingly slowly, dragging on and out like a tease. The boredom still drives him crazy. 

The worst part is, now, he feels somewhat separated from all of it. There’s some sort of unreachable gulf between him and Chris and Dustin now, and a lot of time Mark feels like he’s looking at them from the outside in, which makes him feel angry and jealous and irritated all at once. It’s like he can read clearly the sheer _want_ in all of Chris’ gestures, and Dustin’s obliviousness practically radiates off him in response. Mark spends a lot of time glaring at the back of their heads as they laugh and feeling bitter. 

Maybe it’s petty, but he finds he doesn’t really care. 

He feels like they have this _gift_ , okay, and they’re _wasting_ it. And Mark lost his, had it ripped from his hands by a war he would love nothing more than to leave behind forever, and it’s physically painful to him to see them squander it like that--tiptoe around it, keep it locked up inside them. 

And the worst part is, deep down, he knows it’s not that simple. But that doesn’t make it stop hurting. 

Eventually he figures that writing all this stuff down is better than having it stew in his head all day long, and then it's like everything's back to normal--or as normal as it ever gets here. 

He writes to Eduardo. He always has a letter in progress to him: about what happened in his day, about his life back home, about things he remembers from their time together. It's what gets him through the day more times than he can count, frankly, and it helps him feel not so alone. It makes him feel like Eduardo's there even though he isn't, and that makes him breathe easier. He doesn't resent Chris and Dustin and their obvious situation this way, and he sleeps better--even dreams, ones so sweet that waking up is always a crushingly harsh reality. But one that he can get through, now, and he knows it. 

One day, he sits down with so many words swirling in his head that he just picks up the pen and _goes_. He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, barely moves until it's finished about twelve hours later (or as finished as it will be here). He's so focused that he can't even really step out of himself to read it, couldn't articulate what it's about if someone asked him right then, and reads it with an entirely fresh sense of discovery. 

He realizes then, that the poem is about Eduardo's hands. 

Not even in a sexual way, at all--but a tender way, a comfort way. When he reads it back to himself he can almost feel Eduardo's arms wrapped around him, holding him tight and safe. It makes his eyes sting and he rubs at them dismissively, getting up and striding straight to get food, eating it as fast as he can, and then going back and collapsing immediately on his bunk. 

The poem makes him miss Eduardo more strongly than he ever has, like something is wrapped around his heart and _tugging_ on it. He shoves his journal into his duffel and cries, silent and broken, into his pillow. 

//

_“Died some, pro patria,_  
_non dulce non ‘et decor’…”_

//

They start to get comfortable; that’s the problem. 

It’s a day like any other when their first real battle at Cape Gloucester happens. It sneaks up on them, but all the same it feels like déjà vu--a bloody blur Mark screams and shoots and fights his way through, with absolute single-minded focus until the noise starts to die down and he can breathe again, taking deep gasping, greedy breaths. One down. God only knows how many to go. 

And then Mark's stomach starts to churn in that unpleasant way he remembers. He knows what's coming, that part where everyone walks around and surveys the situation they're in... and tally their losses. Maybe the hardest part of all of it, at least for him. 

But Mark clenches his fists, sets his jaw, and goes. It's nothing out of the ordinary until he hears hoarse, wrenched screaming echoing from not too far away, and his heart jumps into his throat when he recognizes the voice. 

Mark runs. 

He runs so fast in the direction of the noise that his chest feels tight (but maybe that's something else, something he can't think about yet). He's gasping for breath and pushing people out of the way but he gets there and it's too late--before him is the horror of his nightmares. 

Dustin is on his knees, covered in mud, clutching at a uniform, a body he's crouching next to. There are people trying to pull him off but Dustin doesn't seem to know they're there, is shaking their hands off with his entire body without much effort. The tracks of tears from his eyes are the only clean parts to his face, and the cries he's emitting are something raw, animal, something primal and deep that is so stinging that Mark can feel himself going deaf with it. 

He feels a little bit dizzy because he knows. He knew from the moment he heard that shriek pierce the sky. There was only one explanation. 

Mark elbows his way past people to get a better look, and every part of him sinks. Because he was right. That is Chris, eyes frozen, body still, legs splayed at awkward, impossible angles. Chris is dead. 

There's a red stain all over his shirt, and that's when Mark notices that Dustin is clutching at his cold, limp hands. Dustin's own hands are stained with red, with _Chris_ ' blood, and Dustin's grip is so tight his knuckles are going white. His gun is thrown to the ground haphazardly, and that's when Mark puts two and two together. 

This wasn't some sort of situation where Dustin just happened to stumble across Chris' dead body--no. Dustin was _there_ , probably in the moments when Chris died. Holding his hands. 

In that moment, Mark swears he can feel his heart break. 

"Dustin," he says, tone urgent, pushing forward towards him and then falling to his knees by Dustin's side. " _Dustin_."

Dustin's screams go silent as he shakes his head back and forth, taking shaking, unsteady breaths between sobs. Mark wraps his arms around him and throws his body weight backward, trying to distance Dustin from this. There are men standing nearby waiting to take Chris' body, all looking at him like they don't quite know what to do. 

Dustin's fingers release, splaying wide over Chris' chest. "I can't leave him, I _can't_!" he cries, and Mark bites down on his lower lip to stay in control. "I can't, I can't!" he continues, but Mark has pulled him far enough away that others can sweep in and deal with it. Dustin is shaking furiously in his arms, and Mark just tries to breathe, even through Dustin's continued screams. He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough that even the sounds start to fade away, and he can pretend he's somewhere else. 

//

That night, Mark lies awake while Dustin sleeps. 

Rain patters away on the tent roof, because it never stops fucking raining here. Dustin is pressed to his side and Mark can feel him trembling all through the night, despite the heat. He lets out little terrified whimpers every once in a while, and Mark wonders idly if they share the nightmares or if this is new. If this is because of Chris. 

Even in sleep his face is tense, unhappy, like he's defending himself from this reality even there. Mark thinks that is definitely the war. Dustin's all of _nineteen_ , before all this he must have looked serene in his sleep. Peaceful. Innocent. 

Mark himself can barely manage to close his eyes--at least, not without seeing the lifelessness of Chris' body waiting for him there, which jolts them open again every time. He shivers once, bodily, and shakes his head a little thinking about it, as if he can dislodge the image in that one move. He sighs, curling up on his side and crosses his arms across his chest, feet just touching Dustin's. Mark breathes out slow and tries to replace the thought. With _anything._

Eduardo is the first thing that pops into his head. 

It hurts a little to think of, a sharp twinge in his chest, but it's worth it. He thinks of Eduardo smiling at him in the sunlight like he is the whole world, and he can feel himself relax, eyes slipping shut easy of their own accord. It may be the exhaustion, but Mark thinks it definitely has something to do with that memory. That face. 

He lets his mind wander, reveling in it, and in his head he doesn't hear the snores of others or the chirping of crickets or anything else. Just _querido_ , can see Eduardo's lips forming it, practically feel his reassuring touch. 

Even if he _could_ sleep it wouldn't be a good idea, but thus occupied, Mark can feel every single part of him relax. 

//

_“...walked eye-deep in hell_  
_believing in old men’s lies, then unbelieving_  
_came home, home to a lie,_  
_home to many deceits,_  
_home to old eyes and new infamy;_  
_usury age-old and age-thick_  
_and liars in public places.”_

//

Things start to get a little bit blurry after that. 

It rains constantly, stealing the light of day that would separate things, make time easier to follow. They fight a lot, sleep little, and mostly it’s just the endless drudgery of in and out, over and over, and Mark’s mind can’t keep up with it. 

He tries to be strong for Dustin, who looks like he’s breaking more and more every day. It’s like Chris’ death knocked him down and he hasn’t been able to get back up again, and Mark can’t even remember the last time he saw Dustin smile. He is silent, often chooses not to eat, and in battles he is ruthless, like he is begging to be killed. He cries and screams in his sleep, and Mark usually wakes him, and Dustin heaves deep breath like he’s been running away in his dreams. 

Mark worries about him constantly. 

To be fair, he’s not in the best shape himself… He can’t stop coughing. The air never dries out here, and he can feel his body deflating underneath the stress of it--the heat and the humidity, the lack of sleep, the way his feet are never totally dry. 

And then there is a week where he’s so sick he can’t even get out of his bunk. It’s nothing too serious, but when he tries to stand he always falls back down, and his coughs are deep and stinging in his chest. They get him some meds and he sleeps, mostly, and Dustin comes and sits on the side of his bed and talks nonsense as Mark floats in and out of consciousness. 

Then, the doctors declare him better, shove him back on his feet and straight into the battlefield. 

Which, in hindsight, probably was not the smartest decision in the world since he still didn’t feel 100%, but what was Mark supposed to do? There was nothing he _could_ do. 

The horrors of warfare seem to hit him all over again, like his dreams weren’t vivid enough. It is loud and it is messy and he’s having trouble keeping track of where he is, but then he sees Dustin--screaming and unloading an entire magazine at the enemy, but Mark sees something he’s pretty sure Dustin _doesn’t_ see. 

There’s a man aiming for him hidden partially in the bushes. Mark fumbles for his gun but his fingers slip and side with anxiety, the frantic pulse of his heartbeat, and there’s only one option. 

He screams Dustin’s name loud and guttural, hurtling in his whole body in that direction. 

He feels a bullet go into his leg and he cries out, and then his whole body hits the ground hard enough that it feels like all of his bones crunch. There’s something dripping down his forehead and Mark is pretty sure it’s blood, from the force of the fall and the way his head clunked against the ground. 

From the sounds surrounding him, everything just keeps going on, as strange as that seems. But Dustin is crouching down, face pale and eyes wide, saying “Mark, _Mark_ ” in hoarse tones, and his vision goes dark. 

//

That is how Mark gets sent home. 

He gets sent to the military hospital nearby first--they set his broken leg and examine his skull. The leg will heal no problem, but it will take 6 weeks in a cast, on crutches. Which is enough to get him sent home on its own, but compounded with the fact that the doctors are worried about his skull, which appears to have been mildly fractured. The only treatment is pain medication because it isn’t really that bad as far as they can tell, but they feel it would be better to be safe than sorry and have him get it checked out at home too. 

(He keeps asking everyone about Dustin: do they know what happened to him, is he okay, what’s going on with Dustin--but no one can tell him.)

Still, Mark is sent back home. His whole family rushes out to greet him as he hobbles over to him. His sisters tear up and his mother _sobs_ , and his father goes all gruff and thumps him on the back and sniffles a lot. 

It feels good to be back, but then again, it would feel great to be anywhere but there and Mark knows that. He does enjoy all the same things--the loud family dinners full of stories and opinions from while he’s been gone, the updates on how everyone he ever met is doing. His older sister and her husband are expecting a baby and she’s _glowing_ about it, his younger sisters are flourishing in school and college, respectively, and his father was promoted at work. 

And it’s all very good and well, but it doesn’t make him miss those simple, low-lit nights in Melbourne any less. 

The paper told him to take off as long as he needed, so he spends the six weeks at home. He doesn’t do anyprofessional writing, though the editor himself did indicate they’d _love_ to have a piece from him detailing a firsthand account of his experience in the war. Mark mulls it over ad nauseum, but can’t bring himself to do it. Nothing he could say or write that they would take could capture what he wanted to say... It would be utterly unprintable. 

Because he refuses to dumb it down. People need to understand the senseless horror of it, the fuzziness of heroism, the kindred bonds and the mind-numbing grief, the way it is simultaneously something you want to escape and the way it becomes the only thing you truly know. And Mark doesn't have the words. 

He focuses on his poetry instead. 

It's easier because it's imagistic. He can paint the jungle with words and the stifling heat, the ache in your feet and your chest. He can do that. But he doesn't. 

Mostly he looks over his notes and scribblings from when he was over there. It's easier, brings him back there quicker, than anything he tries to compose now about back there. They're actually pretty good, quite a few of them, for how little sleep and time he got to work on them. He fits in little pieces of this and that into other things, and then some things develop on their own, and he starts to toy with the idea of possibly trying to put together a collection from when he was deployed. 

He writes letter upon letter to Eduardo that he does not send. 

He'd sent all the ones from Gloucester as soon as he could finish them because those were do important. Those helped him survive there, and Eduardo should know that even a world away, he was helping Mark get through. But here, back in Pennsylvania, it's hard for Mark to justify writing. Maybe Eduardo's moved on, maybe he's trying to forget Mark. Mark doesn't want to pester him or anything like that, and he's not sure where they stand, at the moment. 

He just wants a sign. 

//

_“...frankness as never before,_  
_disillusions as never told in the old days,_  
_hysterias, trench confessions,_  
_laughter out of dead bellies.”_

//

As soon as he gets off his crutches, Mark takes a train to see Dustin, who apparently had been sent home only a week or so after Mark. _Shell shock_ , the letter from his sister had said. Like the last war, but without the shells. 

He's greeted by Dustin's sister, a red haired girl who can't be more than 22. "You must be Mark," she says as she opens the door, and Mark nods. 

"I am." 

She invites him in, offering him a seat at the kitchen table and anything he wants to eat, making noises about her famous apple pie. Mark passes but takes a glass of milk, curling his fingers around the glass nervously. "How is he?" he finally asks, and she--Daisy, Mark suddenly remembers--sighs as she puts the kettle on. 

"He's... all shook up," she admits in a hushed whisper, shaking her head and pressing her lips together tightly. "When we first got him home he got real sick, all shaky and the sweats and everything. Doctor said to give him lots of sleep, so we did, but we'd have to wake him up to eat and he wouldn't know where he was, or who we were. Asked for you, or somebody named Chris. Not to mention the screaming in his dreams," Daisy murmurs, sniffing a little and smoothing out her skirt before turning back to the stovetop. "Do you know who Chris is? He hasn't told us," she asks, casual and offhand. 

Mark tries not to stiffen too visibly. "He was a friend of ours, in our unit," Mark says, trying to give the bare minimum. "He died." 

Daisy hums sympathetically, and then there's a moment of quiet. "He's getting better, though," she admits, stirring something on the stove with a wooden spoon. "He knows who everyone is and all that. But there's still the melancholy, and the nightmares." She says it like it's just another fact of life, like the weather or day of the week, instead of the mind-numbing outrage it is. Dustin went to the war a kid full of potential and came out a broken, sick man, and Mark has to let go of his milk glass for fear of breaking it. 

"Can I see him?" Mark asks, trying to cut off any further line of conversation before it can start. Not to be rude, but he knows that he can _understand._

Daisy sighs and nods with a tenuous smile. Mark feels for her, really, he does. It's got to be a fucking nightmare to expect your brother to come back home and instead get a shell of what he once was. But Mark just wishes he could make her understand how lucky she is to have him back at all. 

He thinks about it while she goes to get him, and then it isn't long until he hears footsteps pounding as someone runs down the stairs. He stands up, turns around, and then there is Dustin in the doorframe. 

"Mark," he says, his voice cracking, and then he throws himself onto him, hugging him so hard Mark can barely breathe. He doesn't mind though, doesn't say anything. Just hugs him back and breathes, in and out, feeling the reality of this. "Thank you," he chokes out, "for what you did." 

Mark doesn't really know what to do with that, so he just goes, "Don't worry about it," in a tone he hopes comes off as understanding and embarrassed (since that's what he is) and not ungrateful, or something. But the great thing about Dustin is, and always has been, as long as Mark's known him, his seemingly natural tendency to always believe the best in people, so when Mark feels him nod he knows that Dustin gets it exactly. 

Eventually Dustin pulls away and it's only then that Mark sees he is shaking, trembling. Mark claps him on the back. "You okay man?"

Dustin laughs without humor, a strange and foreign sound Mark has never heard come out of him, and his lips stretch into a weak imitation of a smile. Something is his face just crumples, and he lets out a cracked, "I don't know, Mark."

//

They retreat into the living room for some privacy, leaving Daisy in the kitchen. Mark watches Dustin shake his head back and forth and clutch tightly at the fabric of his trousers pulled across his knees, as if he needs something to hold on to. 

"Sometimes I fall asleep and my dreams are so vivid I feel like I'm right back there," he admits in a hushed voice. "Like I never left, and everything since has been a really cruel dream." Dustin sighs, the sound rattling out of his chest. "It scares me how easy I believe it."

“I know,” Mark replies, sighing. “I--me too. With the dreams.”

Dustin’s head perks up. “Really? And the medication, and the doctors…”

He trails off when he sees Mark sadly shake his head. “No, I--I don’t think mine is quite as serious as. As yours.”

Dustin visibly wilts a little, head dropping. “That’s good, though. That’s good,” he says, a strained smile on his face. He runs his hands fitfully through his hair, and he looks around for a moment before he continues, “Chris is in my dreams. Sometimes.” Mark nods once, short, waiting. He watches Dustin gulp for air and when he speaks again his words are shaky, and his eyes are watery and Mark has to reach forward, grip one of his hands tight. 

“I wish it had been me,” he breathes, shaking everywhere. “Chris was stronger than me, he was stronger than _all of us_ , he could have done this, and then I would--I would--”

Mark squeezes his hands just once, sharp and sure. “He wouldn’t have wanted that,” Mark says, feeling somewhat at a loss. “Chris, he. He really loved you.”

It feels strange coming out of his mouth, like it isn’t his to say, but Chris is gone now and how else is Dustin ever going to hear it. Dustin releases Mark’s hand to press the heels of his hands over his eyes and sniffles. “I know.”

He doesn’t get it. “He…” he tries again, but then he stops himself. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe Dustin knowing would just fuck him up further, leave him with even more guilt and sadness than he has now, already so much more than he can bear. So he just nods, removing his own hand from Dustin’s knee and folding it back in his lap. “He really did,” he repeats, and Dustin slumps onto Mark’s shoulder, and it’s just like that night in Cape Gloucester all over again, only worse. 

Because then they could cling to the hazy hope of the idea that if they just _got out_ … if they just got out it would all be okay. But now, now they’re discovering that there is no “out”. 

In the ways it counts, maybe they’re never going to leave the war. 

//

Mark's been home a couple months when he gets the letter from Australia. His sister brings it into the house and drops it on his lap with her eyebrows raised in a silent question, but Mark can't answer her. He can't even speak--he had considered giving up all hope of this happening. He picks up the envelope with shaking fingers and pushes past her and takes the stairs to his room two at a time. If anyone says anything to him en route, he doesn't notice. 

He flops onto his bed on his back and runs his fingertips gently over the ink of his name above the address in Eduardo's slanted script, breathing out slow. He opens it painstakingly, avoiding any rips or tears, trying to savor every second in case this is the only one. But once it's open he reads it ferociously, so quickly it takes a minute for the words to sink in, making him stop and go back. 

_Dear Mark,_

_Mae passed away just a few days ago. The doctors said it was a heart attack, some sort of freak thing, since she has always been in really good health._

_I'm going through the funeral planning and things like that and it all just feels so surreal. Don't hate me for saying this, but I didn't expect her to be the one I'd have to say goodbye to._

_But I guess we're both doing a lot of that lately. I got all your letters and read them all, every word. I'm sorry about Chris. And Dustin, for different reasons. Even with what's happening here, I really can't imagine. I know it must be terrible for you, but I can't help but feel incredibly lucky and grateful that you made it out of there alive and safe, and I know your family feels the same way._

_Another thing I'm learning from all this is that I was wrong about what I said to you. You were right. I'd rather cherish the time I have with people than cut ties to protect myself for when they leave. Maybe that's selfish of me, but I don't think I care. I don't want to lose anyone before I absolutely have to. I'm sorry for what I said and did, even though I think that's what I needed at the time. Anyway, it's not what I need now._

_Come here, if you can. I feel like a horrible person to ask that of you, since you're with your family and here is probably too close to that time than you ever want to be again, but I want you here. I understand now. I need you and I think you need me._

_It's a lot to ask, I know. I'm sorry for that. But please consider it._

_I love you and I don't want to deny myself that. I don't want to deny us a chance._

_Yours,_

_Eduardo._

//

He tells his family he has some loose ends to tie up in Melbourne, and that he's going to see a friend. Mark doesn't specify how long he'll be gone, but basically implies it will be a couple months. He feels bad for lying, and on some level feels he should tell them that he doesn't know if he's _ever_ coming back, but it's too hard. 

There is some guilt there for leaving so soon, but this--this could be his only chance. And Eduardo is something Mark never thought he would get, and he's not going to give up so easily. He asked for a sign and he got one. This is it. 

He takes care of some things before he leaves. He buys a crib for his sister, leaves books for his other two sisters, his dog tags for his mother and father. He quits his job at the paper. And he takes all of Erica's letters and drops them in her mailbox as a wedding present (she's engaged to Cameron Winklevoss, an up-and-coming businessman), along with a note thanking her for everything--for things she doesn't know. He writes Dustin a letter and sends it off, wishing him all the best in everything and enclosing the Melbourne address, telling him to write and let Mark know how he's doing. 

It all feels like goodbye in the most bittersweet way, but Mark knows. Knows this isn't the end, not even close. 

He made it out. This is the first time he can really and truly _own_ that. He made it out of hell, and everything from here on out is up. 

//

He leaves in the morning, before anyone else in the house is awake. He’s said all his goodbyes already, and there’s no use in prolonging the inevitable. He creeps through the house quietly, running his fingertips over the old fireplace, the wooden dining table and all the surrounding chairs, the handrail of the staircase. Mark sighs, gives it all one last glance, and then closes the door softly behind him. 

The journey makes him anxious--first he has to fly to Paris, and then board a ship headed to Melbourne, which will take a couple weeks. It gives him a lot of time to think about everything, to stew over whether or not he’s doing the right thing. 

It has been a long time and so much has happened. In some ways those ten months in Melbourne feel like a lifetime ago, but on the other hand Mark's whole _body_ remembers it, is shaking a little with anticipation. Mark thinks of that silly phrase, "like riding a bike", and has to laugh a little to himself at the thought. 

The ship's course feels unbearably long. He swears he can feel it sway back and forth, and when he does, he tries to pay attention to his breathing, keep it steady. Maybe that way his head will keep from spinning around in useless circles. 

Because the more he thinks about it the more he second-guesses everything. 

Eduardo's lost his mother. He and Dustin lost Chris. He's even lost Dustin, in some sense, to another city and another life, and to his own head, though he hopes at some point he'll be able to come back. 

It's just, there are all these _holes_ in all of them now, that the war and life since have left, and with these new additions Mark wonders if they will even fit back together again. He hopes with everything in him that they can, even if it's not the same way as before. 

And then there's the question lingering at the back of Mark's mind that he's avoiding more than anything--does he even _deserve_ this? 

All of this stirs around in his head for most of the journey, and he spends far too much time in his head. 

So, the entire last day he sleeps to try and clear it. And then when he wakes, they've made port in Melbourne. 

//

As soon as they pull into port, something tentative and bitter settles into the pit of Mark’s stomach--it’s worry, he realizes a moment later than he should have. Which isn’t that surprising, he’s been worrying more or less about everything since this whole journey started, but this is a very specific kind of anxiety-worry, distinctly Eduardo flavored. 

He’s going to see Eduardo again. That’s… that’s almost more than his brain can handle. 

Once people start disembarking, Mark looks out over the railing and into the crowds of people below, all waving and happy. There are so many of them, and the always-working part of his brain wonders how he will even be able to find Eduardo, but he can’t concentrate on that just now. He’s here and that’s what’s important. 

He grabs his bag and hauls it over his shoulder, breathing out slowly. He walks slow off the ship, and then finally his feet are on land. There are so many people here, packed in like sardines and it would be a little bit suffocating normally, probably, but he’s mostly just overcome with the knowledge that after so much--time and life and death--he’s here. After so long. 

He wanders through the crowd aimlessly for a few minutes, eyes peeled, heart racing obnoxiously with something caught between excitement and fear. People bump into him and apologize, but Mark doesn’t hear them. The crowd is loud but he doesn’t hear that either… it’s like a quiet hum in his ears that muffles it all. 

And then, out of nowhere, he hears his name. 

“Mark!” comes a scream, and Mark turns, frantic, unable to discern the direction from which it came. And then again, louder. “ _Mark_!”

He turns and then his eyes catch a figure pushing its way through the crowd, eager and insistent. Mark’s face takes on a grin immediately, body knowing for certain before his eyes can distinctly see--Eduardo. 

He is grinning too, and Mark immediately heads off in his direction, pushing through bodies without a second thought or apology, one fixed goal in his mind. “Wardo!”

They collide in the middle, arms out as they catch each other in a tight embrace. Mark’s breathing so fast, and he’s clutching at Eduardo’s back and his neck and Eduardo has his face buried in Mark’s shoulder, sobbing. A laugh bubbles out of Mark--the disbelieving kind, too much happiness and nowhere to put it all--and he’s pressing himself impossibly closer. 

There is so much he’d forgotten… the _smell_ of Eduardo, the softness of his hair, the golden sunkissed tan on his skin. Mark’s brain wants to break it down and catalog it all, but the majority of him wants to just revel in this, so he does. 

It's like coming home in a way that going back to the States never really felt, and he knows this is what was missing. Eduardo's arms are wrapped around him warm and tight, and God, Mark had missed touch. Touch like _this_ , that makes you feel absolutely, undeniably loved. 

Mark squeezes Eduardo closer and thrills at the fact that no one's even watching them, too distracted by other arrivals or looking for their own loved ones. He knows it won't be like this forever and he should cherish it while he can, but then Eduardo squeezes him back before Mark does something fantastically stupid like tip his chin up and kiss him. He's pretty sure people would notice that. 

He really could stay here forever, but then Eduardo looks up, his cheeks shining wet with tears and smiling wide. Mark's heart thumps away and Eduardo tangles their fingers together, making him even more breathless. 

(There will be a moment later, back at the house, when Eduardo will ask from the kitchen sink while Mark sits at the dining table, "How long are you staying for?" without quite looking up, like he's afraid of the answer. 

And Mark will look right at him and say, braver than he's ever been in his whole life, "As long as you'll have me."

And _then_ Eduardo will look up, face bright with amazement and wonder and all those beautiful things, and he will move, throwing himself around Mark in the tightest embrace, so much so that it will shake a laugh out of Mark. "Forever," he will mumble into the curve of Mark's neck. 

This is the moment when Mark will realize that he gets to have what he never thought he would. There are years--decades--stretching out before them with no end in sight, and he gets all of it. He gets to know Eduardo completely, unravel each and every one of his stories and get answers to all the questions he was too afraid to ask and everything, all of it, all the time, for keeps. 

"Sounds good to me," he replies, wrapping his arms around Eduardo's back, warm and close.)

"C'mon," Eduardo murmurs, close. "Let's go home, _querido_."

Mark breathes out slowly and nods, a genuine and easy smile slipping onto his face--and the way Eduardo looks at him he knows what he's thinking, just then. Mark is thinking it too. 

"Yeah," he murmurs back, and lets Eduardo lead them home. 

//

_“There died a myriad,_  
_And of the best, among them.”_

//


End file.
